


Home of Shadows

by HiMiTSu



Series: Home of Shadows [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark, Gangster Stereotypes, M/M, Mob Boss Percival Graves, OCs Death, OCs POV, Romance, Third Person POV, mild violence, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiMiTSu/pseuds/HiMiTSu
Summary: A story of Credence Barebone and Percival Graves told from perspectives of outsiders.Inspired bythis particular post.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a huge experiment for me. Writing a story from OCs POV is unusual, I know, and probably not something many people would be intersted in. But, just, give it a chance? 
> 
> Please note that the parts are written from POV of different characters so their view of things varies and not always expresses my own.
> 
> The whole thing was inspired by [this particular post](http://mysteryismyart.tumblr.com/post/154329179835/xxxkingmn-gradence-a-modern-au-doesnt-this). I really liked it's mood and that's how this started:)
> 
> Edit 01/03/2017: I did [my own photo edit for th story! ](http://mysteryismyart.tumblr.com/post/157860666205/home-of-shadows-credence-the-mansion-a-story)  
> (Graves edit is in the works;))

Jimmy had been working for Mr. Graves for three years now and everyone was still calling him ‘the new guy’. They accepted him, of course, and they trusted him but whenever they were talking about him, it was always ‘new guy’ that and ‘new guy’ this. Jimmy was hoping for a cool nickname when he joined the gang – brought in by his old high school friend – but from James Carlon he turned into ‘Jimmy the New Guy’. He was somewhat offended. But raising the issue would only make him the laughing stock of the gang so he resolved to wait this out. He was at the three-year mark and counting.

Other than that, everything was going pretty well for Jimmy. Mr. Graves was a decent man, ruthless but clever, protective of his territory but good to his men. The pay was enough to help his poor mom and still be able to get himself some good new suits. He was planning to ask Jenny from across the street on a date – as soon as he could plan everything perfectly and gather enough courage to talk to her. So life had been pretty good to Jimmy so far.

“Jimmy,” Mr. Graves called out from the back seat. “Stop the car.”

Mr. Graves was always polite, his low voice almost gentle when he issued an order. Jimmy slowed the car and parked neatly by the sidewalk. It pleased him to know that he was an excellent driver. The street was almost empty – it had been raining since morning without stopping – and not many people wanted to brave the weather. Jimmy squinted out the window and noticed two figures out in the open. A guy in a dark tattered raincoat and a little girl hiding in the folds of it.

“Pass the umbrella,” Mr. Graves prodded.

“Oh yeah, sure.” Jimmy shifted through the mess on the front seat until he found a plain black umbrella. He handed it back over the gearshift. Watched Mr. Graves duck out of the car and stride to the duo on the street.

Without anything else to entertain him he leaned to the window to watch closely. The guy with the girl were holding up some kind of a sign and a donations jar. They seemed soaked to the bone, miserable and shaking but keeping their post. They both looked up when Mr. Graves approached.

The girl stared back defiantly and Jimmy had to smile at the way the guy had to pull her back; she must be a real stubborn kid. The glass fogged from Jimmy’s breathy laugh and he had to wipe away the condensation so he missed how the conversation started. But when he could see properly again Mr. Graves was talking softly to the guy, inquiring tilt of his head somewhat familiar. He always listened attentively whether to ф business report or personal anecdotes, and this time Mr. Graves was leaning closer to hear over the traffic and the rain and sharing his umbrella with the strange pair. He seemed more interested in the young man than the girl as he asked a question after question and only received what looked like short simple answers.

When they shifted, Jimmy was able to see the sign the young man was holding. Some kind of a church – Jimmy wasn’t a religious man, despite all his mother’s efforts, so he couldn’t tell which exactly. So charity…that’s what he had expected. Not form Mr. Graves however. The boss was a firm believer that every man created his own fate so seeing him slipping a couple banknotes into the jar was unusual.

The girl, who had been eyeing him skeptically before that beamed with a huge smile. Mr. Graves spared her a glance and asked the young man something. The guy, pale as death, as Jimmy’ mother would say, gave a sharp little nod and then muttered something that looked like a ‘thank you’. It was hard to tell from the distance.

Mr. Graves lingered, gaze jumping from the guy to the girl and back and retreated with a sweet smile.

Jimmy had seen the boss kill a man with the same smile.

He didn’t ask anything when Mr. Graves settled back into the car, even though Jimmy was real curious, but the other guys tended to call him ‘nosy’ so he had been working on his restraint lately. Jimmy just started the car and drove away, not sparing a glance to the miserable pair.

-

 Mr. Graves tended to keep to a reasonable schedule. He liked doing some things in certain order. That is why they usually followed the same route from the club back to the mansion. There were several clubs that belonged to Mr. Graves, the legitimate business as boss had called it, and also a couple more that they provided protection for. Boss preferred checking up on the establishments at least once a month to personally make sure that everything was in order. Usually they followed the same path, starting from the clubs in the north of the city and slowly making their way downward and ending up at Mr. Grave’s mansion. Not the loft – that one was on the east.

That day though Mr. Graves purposefully leaned on the driver’s seat and asked Jimmy go down a different road.

“Why?” Jimmy blurted out. He was still working on that self-control issue.

There was no reply, of course. Mr. Graves just hovered over his shoulder until Jimmy came to a cross-roads and took a turn to the right. Jimmy always felt nervous when Mr. Graves invaded his personal space. Even though a gun was boss’s preferred weapon, a knife was always close at hand and, even though Mr. Graves surely was a well-mannered man who never allowed his temper get the better of him, Jimmy was always acutely aware that he could kill without thought or consequences.

Jimmy swallowed over the lump in his throat and glanced into the rearview mirror. Mr. Graves was sitting peacefully at the back, designer suit immaculate as always, and watching the street behind the window.

Contrary to popular belief, Jimmy was not stupid. He dropped the speed a little, allowing Mr. Graves a better view of their surroundings, and stared straight ahead, eyes scanning the sidewalk. He was already parking when the command to stop came.

There they were, at the very same place, shaking in the autumn wind. The dusk had settled a couple hours ago so the chill of the upcoming night had already been settling in. Even from his place in the car Jimmy cold see them shivering. The guy was holding the tin jar this time, fingers  wrapped around it protectively, and the girl had the sign in her hands. She wasn’t as careful with it.

Mr. Graves greeted both and started up a conversation. What they might be talking about, Jimmy hadn’t the slightest. Now that the rain wasn’t getting in the way and the pair wasn’t huddled in an oversized coat together he could get a good look at them. Both were pale and thin, a little bit sickly maybe. The girl was wearing a very plain dress, old but clean, and had her hair in neat little braids – but with the way she was looking up at Mr. Graves, all defiance and mistrust, you’d think she was the bigshot in town. Jimmy liked the spirit. The boy, however, seemed a complete opposite. Jimmy looked over his hunched figure with distaste. The black suit hang on his thin frame, ill-fitting. He would not look straight at anyone for longer than a couple of moments, that haunted look always turned downward to his feet. Jimmy watched Mr. Graves try and cajole him into a conversation but the replies came curt and quiet, the boss had to lean closer every time to hear them.

And was that a bowl cut? God, the guy was weird.

The girl interfered from time to time, her chin tilted upwards stubbornly. Jimmy would say she was protective but there was something off about those two.

His phone chimed on the dash and Jimmy turned away from the scene, using a spare moment to text back. Guys kept sending him dating tips but Jimmy had a feeling a nice girl like Jenny would not appreciate any of the suggestions. He texted Thomas to piss off. Sent a follow up message to inform the guys about a delay.

By the time he was done, Mr. Graves was on his way back to the car already. Jimmy assumed he was done with his charity work. If that made the man feel better about his shady business who was Jimmy to judge him?

“All done, boss?” He asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves replied curtly.

Jimmy caught him staring out the window as the car pulled out onto the street.

-

It had become a routine. Jimmy didn’t even try taking another road anymore. They stopped by almost every week, not only on inspection days now, and the duo, pale and miserable looking, was always there. At the same place day after day.

Jimmy wondered how much more money one church could need? At the rate Mr. Graves kept sliding notes into that tin jar they should have been able to rebuild a whole building by now. But no, the guy and the girl, siblings as Jimmy had found out by now, were at the same place, begging. Always looking slightly tattered.

Jimmy had absolutely no idea why would the boss be interested in this particular pair. God knows, there were enough homeless on the streets and enough fashionable charities for Mr. Graves to indulge in when he was feeling particularly harsh stabs of conscience. Bert, one of the big guys, the _muscle_ as they called him, proclaimed boisterously that boss had no conscience what so ever. It was a mark of a good criminal, he claimed, obviously putting himself in the same pile. But Jimmy had a conscience. And sometimes it nagged viciously at him. Especially when he saw Jenny Erkin from across the street.

Mr. Graves was talking on the phone when they neared the spot but Jimmy didn’t need to be told to stop the car anymore. He parked by the sidewalk and waited for Mr. Graves to finish with his business. Apparently, some weapons deal had gone south a couple nights ago and the Italians were piling the blame on Mr. Graves and his men.

He could hear even from the front the rapid angry speaking of a person on the other end but Mr. Graves never rose his voice and never even removed the phone from his ear. His tone radiated calmness and reassurance. Mr. Graves had this special presence that Jimmy had envied. Why can not he be so smooth and awesome?

The call ended and the only sign of frustration Mr. Graves had allowed himself was throwing the device onto the seat near him.

“No girl today, Sir.” Jimmy informed him promptly.

“What?”

He nodded his head out the window where a lone hunched figure stood, tin jar in hand and a sign at his feet.

Mr. Graves made a thoughtful sound and slid out from the car. It would take a while, Jimmy knew. And he was craving a cigarette. So Jimmy followed boss out and leaned on the hood, rummaging in his pockets.

“Mr. Graves,” the church guy called out. He didn’t sound as weak as Jimmy imagined. “Good evening, Mr. Graves.”

“Credence.” Mr. Graves nodded.

A peculiar name, Jimmy thought as he took a first drag. It felt heavenly.

“Where is Modesty?”

“She is sick.”

It seemed to Jimmy the guy had grown accustomed to boss’s frequent visits. He didn’t look half as spooked as two months prior. He even spared a quick glance to Jimmy, sidewalk otherwise empty, and turned his attention back to Mr. Graves.

“Fever,” he added.

“Have you called a doctor?”

The guy, Credence, Jimmy tried out the name in his mind, shook his head.

“We don’t have the money.”

At that Jimmy stared. He recalled all the times Mr. Graves slid rolled up bills in that long-suffering jar.

“Are _you_ feeling alright?” Mr. Graves asked, instead of addressing the obvious issue. Jimmy figured it wasn’t his place to intrude, but God, that sounded shifty.

“Yes, Mr. Graves,” came a meek reply.

Jimmy threw the butt of his finished cigarette to the ground, stomping on it with his heel, and pulled out another one. He watched Credence while he lit it up. Sometimes he got a feeling the guy was just a really good actor, folding in on himself, looking miserable. Only glancing up sullenly at the passers-by and shifting every time someone came too close. If he straightened, Jimmy was pretty sure, the guy could be as tall as Mr. Graves.

“Credence,” boss called, unusually gently.

The guy bit his lip and lifted his gaze to Mr. Graves; it took him an effort to lock eyes with the other man. It was at moments like these that Jimmy knew he was not faking. “I am alright,” he mumbled barely audibly.

Mr. Graves maintained eye contact for a long moment and finally released the young man with a nod. Credence breathed out heavily and deflated.

“Good.” Mr. Grave’s hand landed on the guys shoulder, heavy and reassuring. “Good. I hope this will help your sister.”  With that he slid a couple notes into the front pocket of Credence’s jacket. Then put another stack into the jar. “You can call me if you need anything. And take care of yourself.”

-

Jimmy got a call in the middle of the night. It would not have been that unusual if he didn’t know for sure that boss had no intention of going out that evening. Things with the Italians had calmed down, and those guys from Brooklyn who imagined they could take over the city were dealt with. But the phone thrilled on his nightstand and Jimmy was already stumbling out of bed when he picked up.

Bert curtly informed him that Mr. Graves needed a car _immediately_ and hang up. A message with an address came when he was pulling a shirt over his head. Jimmy rushed out of the apartment, careful not to wake up his big brother who had been crushing with him ‘for the night’, or more like a couple of days, or if Jimmy was completely honest, it had been almost a month.

He jumped into the car and drove the short way to Mr. Grave’s mansion. They were already waiting on the porch: Mr. Graves slid into the back seat, and Bert climbed in to the front. Jimmy sent him a worried glance, hoping for some explanation, but the big guy ignored him. They pulled out into the empty street, Jimmy driving as fast as he dared. The navigation system led him to a poorer part of town, sad grey buildings lined the way and streetlights flickered weakly overhead. Despite the late hour there were still people milling about.

Jimmy watched Mr. Graves in the rear view mirror when they stopped at the red light. The man seemed agitated, frown set deeply in his features and hands fisted in his dark coat. Jimmy could see the leather straps of a holster under the carelessly unbuttoned jacket. Presence of Bert was another evidence that they were out on actual business. Jimmy felt ice run down his spine and settle in his gut. Being Mr. Grave’s personal driver meant he had never needed to be a getaway car. Jimmy had a gun and knew how to use it but never before he had been in a situation where he had to. He felt suddenly scared. It was worse that both men kept deadly quiet.

Jimmy drove, carefully checking in with the map every now and then. A nervous atmosphere had settled in the car and now he was just as desperate to get to the destination.

He made a double take when the GPS told him to stop by a church. It was a high gothic building that must have looked majestic in the old days but now stood dirty and crumbling, half forgotten. Mr. Graves was the first one out, Bert quick on his heels. Jimmy scrambled for the glove compartment, his fingers clumsy with the lock, and dug out a gun. Only then he rushed after the boss.

Turned out the church only looked deserted from the outside. Inside it was drab and gloomy but with obvious signs of living.  A couple of long tables with chairs, leaflets covering every surface. One crunched under Jimmy’s feet and he frowned at it in the dark. Design looked somewhat familiar. And then he noticed a couple of signs leaning against a table leg. It was _the church_ ; it didn’t look like it lived well with all Mr. Graves’s donations.

“I’ve got a body!” Bert called out. His voice echoed from bare stone walls. “It’s woman!”

Jimmy came closer to investigate. She was lying in between the pews at the end, her face pale and eyes unseeing. Blood was pooling under her body but Jimmy had to strain to notice a stub wound in her chest. It was a deep gash with pieces of her dark clothing still stuck inside. Jimmy turned away from the gruesome sight.

“Oh, another one.” He said quietly. From a few feet away dark cold gaze of a dead teenage girl stared back. Bert stepped over the woman and stopped at his side.

“Huh, stabbed as well.”

Jimmy turned in search of Mr. Graves. Boss was crouched before an overturned table. It looked like he was talking to someone. His soft voice barely carried in the still air but as Jimmy came up he recognized the soothing tones. Jimmy bent at the waist for a better look – there was girl, huddled behind the table. Her face was streaked with tears and she was shaking violently. It took a moment for Jimmy to recognize her.

“Modesty, where is he?” Mr. Graves was asking. He kept repeating it again and again, voice still gentle. The girl shook her head but Mr. Graves just asked once more, wearing down her resolve. She was terrified. Jimmy wondered what kind of a monster could do this.

But then, he already knew the answer.

Finally, the girl gave up, her shaking hand extended upwards and they all searched the darkness for a staircase to another floor. Mr. Grave rose to his feet abruptly and headed there. His spot was empty now so Jimmy fell to his knees and reached out for the poor girl, offering some comfort. He muttered simple things to her, soft calming words, until she stopped shaking quite so violently and allowed him to tug her from behind her cover.

By that time Mr. Graves had emerged, with another person at his side. Credence, his hands and face bloodied, trailed after him listlessly. He shuffled his feet and stumbled with every step and had not Mr. Graves been holding him up with a hand around the guy’s shoulders he would have fallen a dozen times already. Mr. Graves’s Armani coat was slung around this pitiful man, it too now strained with blood and tears.

“It is going to be alright.” Mr. Graves promised to his charge. “We will take care of it.”

They walked, slowly, across the church, past the bodies on the floor, past Modesty huddled into Jimmy’s side. Credence was shaking too, too far gone to understand anything that was happening, but Jimmy could not spare much compassion for him.

Modesty’s hands dug into his thigh painfully and he put a palm on her head in reassurance.

“Bert.” Mr. Graves said, just a name, but the man in questions was already nodding and assuring his boss.

“I’ll call the guys. We’ll clean this up, don’t you worry, boss.”

Mr. Graves didn’t bother acknowledging it with an answer. He led Credence out of the church and to the car.

Jimmy followed them with his gaze. He still did not understand.

 

* * *

 

 

Jason Stradford was the man who, as they say, ‘came with the house’. His grandfather had been running he mansion when it still belonged to descendants of real aristocrats – grandfather had been particularly proud of that fact. They were vain and poor and lost the house by the time next generation was old enough to inherit. A starting movie star bought it from them for practically nothing. And then, as an urban legend went, a gangster won it in a poker game.

Stradford might have been the only person except his employer who knew the truth. Mr. Graves was no ordinary gangster; the organization he ran was more complicated than that. He also stayed away from gambling. And he bought the house for a fair price simply because he liked the garden. The mansion wasn’t particularly big, but had enough presence to overwhelm and impress. Some said it was gloomy but Stradford enjoyed the dark corridors and light breezes in long old halls. The house had style. Even though it barely held any staff these days, he was proud to run the place.

Mr. Graves, if one over-looked his business, was a very plausible employer. Always polite and considerate, appreciative of all the housework Stradford had done. And what Stradford really liked about the man, he never brought ‘work’ home.

So it came as unpleasant surprise when one night – and nightly trips where not an unusual occurrence – Mr. Graves stumbled through the door with a bloodied young man under his arm, trailing dirt all over Stradford’s floor.

“Mr. Graves, Sir?” He hastened to their side, confounded. He tried to be helpful but was absolutely out of his depth. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No,” Mr. Graves waved him off.

He was obviously struggling – the young man in his arms kept stumbling with every step. He was weak and confused; his gaze would skip around, taking in the house and Stradford, and then would fall to the ground. It was like he had to keep reminding himself where he was. His hands were gripping the lapels of the coat that was slung over his shoulders. Mr. Graves was rubbing his arm in reassurance but it didn’t do any good.

Instinct to be helpful prompted Stradford to continue, “Anything else you need, Sir?”

“No.” It came harsher than Mr. Graves’s usual tones. “No, thank you. Your services won’t be needed here.”

They stumbled up the steps to where the actual rooms were. Stradford followed them with his gaze, more intrigued than concerned, and only when they disappeared down the corridor he turned to another presence in the room. It was the driver: as the youngest member of the organization he always looked a little lost, but that night Stradford couldn’t begrudge him the stunned look.

Etiquette prevented Stradford from asking outright; the young man wasn’t leaving though, so he waited.

“Um…Mr. Stradford,” he shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable.

“Yes, James?”

“Do you know how to take care of a kid?”

That was not a question Stradford was expecting. Also one he could not provide a proper answer to. “Excuse me?”

“Ah…it’s nothing.” James shook his head. “I’ll just…” He stepped backwards, his foot caught on the rug and the boy almost fell. Stradford watched impassively. “I’ll just go.”

Stradford followed him to the door. As the boy headed for his car, steps unsure but quick, he noticed a little girl sitting in the front seat. It was surely the strangest evening yet.

-

Stradford prepared some light breakfast the next morning along with Mr. Graves’s usual. And while his employer had been up and about since sunrise there had been no sign of their night guest yet. Stradford, of course, refrained from asking any questions.

It was only at midday when Mr. Graves found him in the kitchen and asked for some food to be sent to his room. Stradford very carefully didn’t not ask for any clarifications – a man of his position had to keep professional; and as the one who ran the house he was bound to find out all the details sooner or later anyway.

“I had some porridge prepared for breakfast. I figured something light might be better?” He asked carefully, already half way through lading the tray.

“Yes, sure,” Mr. Graves nodded and hovered in the doorway for a moment. He looked lost and just a little bit raffled. “I know I don’t need to tell you to be delicate, but…” He waved his hand helplessly and only relaxed when Stradford gave a stiff nod. There, indeed, was absolutely no need for that. “I’ll be in my office.”

Stradford prepared the tray: some reheated porridge, some toast as well as orange juice. Should be fine for now, he had decided and headed upstairs. The door to Mr. Graves’s room was closed but one did not serve for twenty years without knowing how to open the door while balancing a tray in your hands; he unlocked it slowly, pushed carefully at the wood and stepped inside.

Startled black eyes froze him on the spot; their gaze, cautious and unwavering was unexpectedly unnerving.

“I’ve brought breakfast,” he announced. Pulling a tight smile, he crossed the room.

The young man on the bed did not move except for a small nod of acknowledgement. He was wearing what Stradford recognized were Mr. Grave’s pajamas, the proper kind that the man never wore but staff kept giving him for Christmas every year anyway. They were soft flannel in checkered blue and white. Really, it was a mystery how Emma, the usual cook, thought Mr. Graves would ever wear anything like that.

Stradford made his way to the table by the window but changed his mind half-way and veered in the direction of the bedside table. He hesitated a few feet away.

“Is it alright if I put the try near you?” He considered the guest for a moment and added. “Sir?”

That unnerving gaze dropped to the food and the young man swallowed audibly; he must be pretty hungry then. But Stradford still did not move until he got a verbal confirmation.

“Alright,” the young man said. The voice was deeper than Strafed expected. He relaxed a little and let go of the blanket had had been clinging to.

When he moved it became more obvious how the pajamas hang on his lithe frame; he was terribly skinny. And those circles under his eyes certainly did not speak about a healthy life. Oh, and that hairstyle was very much unfortunate.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Dark eyes flickered up from the tray to Stradford’s face. Stopped there and stared with unnatural intensity. Just for a moment though because next the gaze dropped back to the covers. “No, thank you…uh…”

“Stradford, Sir. I run this household.”

“It is a lovely home.” The young man fired out as if by instinct.

“Thank you.”

A moment of silence stretched after that. Stradford busied himself with straightening the tray, quite unnecessarily, and then found himself another task in opening the heavy curtains. It was midday already but there was no much sun. When that was done, Stradford turned back to the young man. “Well, I’ll leave you to your breakfast then. You can call me if you need anything.”

When no reaction followed, Stradford headed for the other door: he came through the one straight from the corridor but the one at the end of the room lead further into Mr. Graves’ living quarters. He needed to make sure everything was in order there.

“Um…Mr. Stradford?”

“Just Stradford is alright, Sir.” He reassured with a pleasant smile, half way through the door already.

“Where is Mr. Graves?”

He sounded so small Stradford almost felt like taking pity on a poor little thing. But he was a man of high standards and pity wasn’t really his forte.

“Mr. Graves is in his study,” he replied evenly.

With that Stradford gave a curt nod in goodbye and closed the door after himself. It turned out he did have cleaning up to do.

There was splatter of blood on the floor; Stradford carefully did not ponder on how their guest appeared to be physically unharmed. There was also dirt but that wouldn’t be too much of a problem. A large sofa was a mess of blankets and pillows, he noted with curiosity, and what actually substituted as Mr. Graves’s pajamas was thrown on the floor behind it. The liquor cabinet stood open and single glass served as a centerpiece for the coffee table.

Mr. Graves must have been really thrown by the occurrences of the previous night; that and the fact that he apparently had spent the night on the couch were sure answers for his ruffled morning look. Stradford hummed in satisfaction of a mystery solved and went about straightening the room.

The day passed by quietly. Mr. Graves stayed in his study while the young man haven’t left the room; Stradford suspected he had actually not left the bed. After lunch some gentlemen came by, couple of Mr. Graves’s trusted people; Stradford served them some snacks while they discussed business matters. Apparently, whatever had happened the previous night warranted a proper clean up. Interesting.

After that everything was quiet. He had served dinner in the office and took some food up to the room upstairs. He found the young man lounging in bed, more relaxed than in the morning. There was also a phone on the nightstand, one that wasn’t there earlier.

“Enjoying the book?” He asked good-naturedly.

“It’s…curious,” the young man commented. Stradford peered at the cover when the young man untangled from the covers and headed for the table. It was some fantasy novel with a pretty cover. Nothing too exciting, Stradford concluded.

“There is a TV in the other room,” he offered.

“I don’t like TVs much,” the young man muttered sullenly. He was eyeing the food with suspicion.

“There is a library downstairs.” Stradford commented. “You might want to visit it later.”

He was getting a feeling that he young man would be staying for a while. Mr. Graves had already requested to prepare the biggest gest room. Who would be actually moving in there was yet to be seen.

“Thank you. I might, if it’s alright, Mr. Stradford.”

“Just Stradford,” he corrected again.

The young man sent him a shy glance, a weak smile. “Thank you,” he ducked his head. “Uh…and my name is Credence.”

“It is a pleasure to know you, Mr. Credence.”

“Just Credence, please.”

Stradford thought he might be getting a soft spot for their new tenant.

-

It took two more days for the young man to venture out of the bedroom – by that time it was already rightfully his. He didn’t have any things; Stradford had sent a gardener to get some clothes and toiletries. The clothes didn’t fit but that was better than him walking around in over-sized pajamas all the time.

Credence was still weary of the staff, Mr. Graves being the only person he trusted, but Stradford felt he was making progress. They talked a little, whenever Stradford had brought the young man his meals and even had a couple discussions about books. It took a month for Credence to feel confident enough to come down for dinner.

Mr. Graves, for proprieties’ sake, usually ate in the dining room. The room was large with proper paneling of dark wood and plush chairs that fit the theme but were not particularly comfortable. The old long table had been replaced by a smaller but as sturdy one by the previous owners, so now it comfortably sat six people, and even that amount rarely came by for dinner.

Stradford had been placing two sets of arrangements ever since Credence’s arrival but alas a seat across from Mr. Graves stayed empty. But he knew it would not be so forever. Credence, however slowly, was gaining confidence. He never ventured outside the house, but inside the residence he was growing accustomed to the spacious rooms and small corridors; he learned that the staff was nice and friendly and preferred to keep to themselves – an invaluable quality when one is working for a criminal. He slowly accepted that his presence at the house was welcome; no doubt, Mr. Graves had persuaded him such. And at some point, Stradford could not be sure if this had Mr. Graves’s touch or not, but Credence had asked if he could have his meal in the dining room. Mr. Graves, who had been planning dining out that night, cancelled his business meeting. It was all surprisingly sweet, if one asked Stradford. But then again, the old man did have a slightly skewed view of the world. For example, when the rumors started – that their new houseguest had killed his family in a fit of rage, Stradford shrugged his shoulders and continued sorting the laundry. The cook, her wide eyes expectant, had asked if he wasn’t bothered by that. Stradford had commented that it was merely a rumor. She left, quite disappointed that her gossip did not stir any excitement. It was good she preferred to keep her gossiping ways safely within the mansion walls. They kept so many secrets of the house they liked to think that they had no secrets from each other. They were, of course, wrong. Stradford preferred to distill some of the information before passing it along – simply to avoid unnecessary panic.  

Stradford did know that Credence Barebone killed his step-mother in what the police called ‘irresistible impulse’ and people simply named ‘the heat of passion’. He was protecting his younger sister from abuse, but Stradford wasn’t sure how ‘affected’ the young man was. He also had stabbed his older step-sister when she tried to stop him. The whole thing was a terrible mess and, if not the involvement of Mr. Graves and his people, would have turned horribly for the young man. Stradford did know all that but Stradford also did not care.

He grew fond of the young man over time. There was something distinctively curious about Credence Barebone: he looked like small caged animal but with the fire in his black black eyes. It took effort to notice it but Stradford had always been good at watching people: it was somewhat a hobby of his. Credence, despite his utter compliance to his fate, to the cruelty of the world and the inescapability of his situation, despite how weak or scared he looked, he wasn’t broken. He was capable of great strength and of real cruelty. He was immensely intriguing.

He was also quite beautiful as it turned out. The young man had a very strong cut to his jaw and sharpness to his features, which was only accented by the pallor of his skin. As his hair grew out, and no one in the house was unhappy with that development, his face acquired a proper frame and, suddenly, everyone had noticed that their guest was very handsome indeed. Though at that time no one was already thinking of him as of a guest. He was such a permanent fixture at the house, even more so than Mr. Graves.

And despite that tempting curl of his lips, the young man was very innocent. His attraction to Mr. Graves was obvious but it could only be over-shadowed by his reluctance. It was charming, in a way. Stradford, being an old man himself, always found young love deserving appreciation. He never stooped to matchmaking; even though his niece and the young mailman he introduced her to did end up getting married.   

It was a year and a half since Credence’s appearance when he discovered the young man in Mr. Graves’s bed. That news he did share with the household and even though the general consensus had been that nothing of scandalous sort had happened, it was a shocking development. A new confidence had added to Credence’s stance and a different sort of intimacy developed between him and Stradford’s employer. Since that moment onward, it wasn’t shocking to find them together in a room, quite often sitting close to each other, sharing casual physical contact. Be it Mr. Graves’s hand absent-mindedly running through Credence’s hair as if in an unrelenting attempt to tame unruly tresses, or the young man putting his head on Mr. Graves’s shoulder when they sat together on the sofa, one busy with business reports, the other with a new book of the week. It was all so very domestic, sometimes Stradford had trouble believing his eyes.

A year after Credence settling in at the mansion Mr. Graves had moved back to the room that previously belonged to him. And that was that.

 

* * *

 

 

Frederic was a very patient man. He had lived to the age of fifty, which in his circles was an accomplishment all on its own, and he was still a part of the organization; his voice as strong as it had been when he had just risen in the ranks. It was the younger generation that ran the businesses these days but he still stayed as a valuable mentor and a confidant. He knew a lot of people – a lot of people knew him. New York was his city: he used to be a street urchin in Brooklyn, dirty and poor, ready to steal and fight. Despite the hardships of the streets, or maybe thanks to them, he had grown up strong. A local gang took him in and when he turned out to also be smart the boss had taken him under his wing. That had been many years ago. Now there wasn’t much left of the original gang: dead almost all of them, but the organization stood strong, keeping a tight fist around their part of the city. These days it was more about politics than about brute force. Sometimes, Frederic missed the old days; sometimes, he was thankful that they can first talk around a dining table and only shoot later. Memories of old friends always fresh in his mind, Frederic never scoffed at a peaceful resolution.

“I thought we were going to the Upper East Side”

“We are meeting Mr. Graves at his own house.” Frederic didn’t have to turn to know that his nephew was frowning. He was frowning all the time, that one.

The car was moving swiftly through the streets of New York, the traffic unusually light for this time of night.

“On his turf? That seems unwise.”

“Georgy,” Frederic glanced at him. The young man scoffed, loudly, so he said with more feeling. “Georgy, it’s a gesture of trust. We don’t need a conflict, Mr. Graves prefers we resolve it without unnecessary violence as well. It’s only a courtesy, especially seen how we are at fault here. Don’t. Don’t laugh.”

Georgy gave a humorless huff anyway. “I don’t see how that matters.”

“You made a mess on his territory, that’s how.” Frederic replied harshly. That only got him an eye roll. Respect and subordination were things his nephew still needed to learn. After a pause, Frederic said, more softly. “We are going to talk it out. It’s not a difficult problem to solve, Georgy.”

“That I know,” the young man muttered under his breath.

He hated been called ‘Georgy’. ‘George or nothing else’, he used to say when he was first deemed old enough to join the family meetings. But George Senior was still in charge at that time, and he didn’t like it when there were even slightest chances of confusion in the organization. And now, five years later and with another boss in charge, his nephew was still ‘Georgy’ – no one bothered with a name change. It irked him to no end, but Frederic liked that; it was a nice little way to put the boy back in his place.

“I heard Graves had a loft,” Georgy mused aloud.

“In another part of the city. He has a mansion at the edge of town. It’s rather…Victorian.” Frederic still wondered what moved a man like Percival Graves, rather modern and progressive, to buy that monstrosity. True, the place was nothing compared to true gothic mansions but it was…flashy. He supposed Mr. Graves enjoyed going along with the type – a mob boss in a huge old house.

They were pulling up to the driveway in ten minutes, car lights putting into a sharp view a large porch with ornate carvings. The house looked properly menacing.

They were met at the door by someone who looked very suspiciously like a butler.

“I run the house,” the man commented as if reading their thoughts. “Mr. Graves is unexpectedly detained. He is apologizing and promising to be back shortly. Meanwhile you can wait for him in the library.”

With a polite nod the butler led them further into the house.

“Not much light here,” Frederic commented lightly. Only small lamps lined the corridor, their light soft and not enough to disperse the dark.

“We don’t get many visitors,” the man replied with only a slight twinge of disdain to his voice. “And Mr. Credence prefers it that way.”

“Who?” Georgy piped up. Frederic managed to dig an elbow into his ribs before the boy could ask any more questions.

“Excuse us. I meant no offence.” He said cordially. “Merely an observation. I see you keep the house in perfect order, uh…”

“Stradford, Sir.”

“Yes, Mr. Stradford.” He flashed the man a friendly smile. The mansion was terribly gloomy, rooms matching the exterior perfectly, but if the inhabitants liked it that way who was he to judge. It certainly wasn’t the worst eccentricity he had ever encountered.

“Thank you, Sir,” the man matched his smile; however on him it looked significantly colder. Frederic felt a relief when the butler turned away. Unfortunately it meant that now Frederic was free to his nephew’s searching gaze. The boy was clearly displeased by being so blatantly disregarded, but dragging into the conversation Graves’s supposed lover was not going to win them any points. From what Frederic knew, it was a sensitive issue at the least.

They stopped, finally, at a set of large doors; made of dark wood they almost blended in with the paneling. Stradford paused with both hands on the handles and swung them open. The gesture was full of theatricality, obviously well-practiced, in a way, impressive. He stepped away to let the guests pass first. Frederic hesitated to give him a brief nod in gratitude and only then stepped to the door so he was distracted the first time his gaze swept around the room. It was huge, walls lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The light here were also low expect for on lamp at the far end.

“Who is that?” Georgy asked before Frederic could detour him this time.

There was a young man, lounging side-ways in a big plush chair. His legs thrown over the armrest and a mop of dark hair resting against the other, he looked a perfect picture of languid boredom. It seemed, even the book set precautious over his knees was not enough to fight off his despondency.

“Mr. Credence,” the butler stood to attention immediately. “I wasn’t aware you were in the library…”

The young man turned his head slowly, giving the new comers a proper look at his face. He was terribly pale but otherwise pretty attractive. Unhurriedly he swung his legs over the armrest so his bare foot were planted on the ground. He looked significantly less self-assured than a moment before, Frederic noted.

“I came in search of a new book,” the young man explained. He was clutching a small paperback in both hands and waved it helplessly. “I thought the meeting was supposed to be in Mr. Graves’s office.” His voice lilted questioningly at the end.

“Mr. Graves is running late,” Stradford explained apologetically.

“Well, I can…” The boy made a move to stand up but Frederic’s manners took the better of him.

“No need to leave.” He hastened to say. Flashed the young man a cordial smile. “This is your house after all.”

He could feel three pairs of eyes digging into him, Stradford’s displeased presence at his side the strongest, but kept his gaze locked on the boy’s dark eyes. It took effort, like he was moving through tar of unpleasant emotions, but he stepped further into the library. Frederic counted it a good sign when the young man didn’t bolt from his seat. His shoulders were tense, buried under the thick layer of a bulky sweater but he was watching them more with interest that with apprehension.

“How about an introduction?” Georgy asked pointedly. He was just a step behind Frederic.

“No need,” the young man retorted and relaxed back into his chair. His pose more controlled, but otherwise unbothered. He buried his nose in a book and paid them no more attention.

Stradford stepped in, offering the guests drinks, and Frederic accepted gratefully. They settled with Georgy on a sofa; his nephew kept sending curious glanced over Frederic’s head.

“So who is this?” He whispered the question right into his uncle’s ear, making sure he wouldn’t be overheard. It was hardly an appropriate place for such a conversation but Frederic feared Georgy would not let go until he was given something.

“I believe that is Mr. Graves’s lover.” He replied just as quietly.

“That’s Graves’s pet?” Georgy echoed incredulously.

Frederic sent him a sidelong glance that he hoped would put an end to the topic. Credence, as he knew the young man was called, was something of a mystery. It was, of course, not unexpected for criminals to keep their loved ones away from the business, but some information always leaked through. With Mr. Graves however…All anyone knew and was willing to talk about were three facts: Graves indeed did have a permanent lover, said lover’s name was Credence – an here no one could testify whether it was the first name or the last or merely a pseudonym, and at last, some in their circles knew how the young man looked like, had met him on a number of different occasions. Other than that and the fact that Graves was fiercely protective of the young man, everything else was a mystery.

Frederic couldn’t help but steal a glance himself. Credence was conventionally attractive, a handsome face, light skin and jet black hair – like a dream character of an old romance novel. He looked comfortable enough in this house, perfectly framed by high ceilings, walls of dark wood and rich carpets underneath; a glass of wine stood on a low table at his elbow, though it looked more a decoration than anything else. Pages of a book kept rustling under his fingers and the boy was so engrossed in it he might have forgotten about the company.

Frederic could see why someone would want him for a lover. But the rumors that surrounded the boy…no one ever knew anything solid, no trustworthy channel would open up, and so the gossip struggled through the veil of mystery. Some ghastly speculations circled around, plots that surely would have left devastating evidence but none of it ever got a proof. Mr. Graves kept those secrets locked so tight; it was more likely the man himself would spill them than anyone would be able to discover a smallest detail.

Frederic held little respect for the gossip, personally familiar with how much damage it can cause, but even he kept an ear out for anything interesting. Georgy, however, found local gossip much too entertaining. It was becoming worrisome, his over-enthusiasm combined with smugness, thus the reason the young man got saddled with Frederic as a handler. Or a nanny, as some preferred to call it.

It must have been half an hour as they sat in the library, Credence involved in his book, Georgy relentlessly staring the place down and Frederic, calmly sipping his scotch, when Stradford appeared at the door again with Mr. Graves in tow. Apologies were falling from his lips even before he crossed over the threshold and Frederic replied with a polite brush off.

“It is no problem, Mr. Graves.”

“Still, I am very sorry. It was an emergency.” He was polite to a fault but never crossing into pleading. A strong man like him could turn even an apology to his favor. “We can move to the office now, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.”

Curiously though, it was Stradford who was showing them out while Mr. Graves lingered in the library. His gaze turned to his young man and, Frederic noticed with some degree of shock, Credence’s dark eyes were staring back intensely. It was only proper to turn away and move on but he paused in the doorway for one more look. Graves was looming over the young man, one hand on the armrest to keep him up, and the other gently moving dark hair out of the way as he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Credence’s cheek. A gesture so simple and yet so tender and intimate. They exchanged a few words, soft murmur of them indiscriminate from a distance and Graves tore himself away from his lover. When he turned to face Frederic and Georgy his face was impassive.

“Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

George was an accomplished young man. Sure, not all his ambitions had come to life yet but he was dead set on realizing his full potential. He had ideas, he had plans and he was very close to getting his means. It was a brilliant idea he had, simple but elegant. A classic solution. It was surprising no one had thought of it before.

A constant dispute with Graves about the Aurors club was a horrible nuisance. The establishment was on their territory but Graves, as an original owner, refused to give it up.  It wasn’t particularly profitable, but it was a popular place among the cops, a perfect place to gather info and do some deals under the table. It was a pretty nice club too, old-fashioned and classy – George could practically see himself running the Aurors, taking that table in the corner Graves had permanently reserved for his crew, firing that rude cook and hiring a pretty young bartender. Yes, some changes would be nice. Improvements.

And a new sign. That would be a nice touch.

But first, he needed to get rid of Graves. Well, nothing so drastic actually, but George had an idea how to persuade the man to back off. Take what they love and make demands – that’s how that thing goes. That’s how it had always been.

George wasn’t rash, as some people claimed. There was no need to make Uncle Fred follow him like a guard dog. The man used to be tough but he lost his touch sometime around the 90th.

He checked his watch – a car should be around to pick him up any moment now. It wasn’t difficult to round up some progressive-thinking guys like him. They knew what was due to them and this, listening to old men and their politics and ‘peaceful resolutions’ – uncle Fred’s favorite phrase – that wasn’t how one built his power. That was not how on earned his money. And they liked money. It allowed them to buy good cars and huge flat screen TVs and go on vacations to exotic countries accompanied by pretty but not too clever women. It was heaven for them. George, he, of course, wanted more than that. He dreamt of ruling this city; New York was a magnificent kingdom and he aspired to take it all. Not Graves, and definitely not Uncle Fred could stop him.

A car pulled up, Ash behind the wheel.

“Alright?” George asked as he settled at the back seat.

“Yeah,” Ash smirked at him through the rear view mirror. “All good.”

Ash had a mean look to him, like a person who enjoyed using their knife a little too much.

“No problems?”

“A little,” his grin turned darker. “The kid is weak, he didn’t even try to fight back. His bodyguards…” Ash shrugged. “We dealt with them.”

George pondered for a moment the consequences of killing Graves’s men but considering what they were about to do… “Good.”

Ash’s laughter filled the car and rang all the way to the destination. An inconspicuous warehouse at the edge of town, it belonged to Tony’s branch of the family – his father had used it for torture. George had not planned to go that far, but if worst came to worst…well, it wasn’t the ‘worst’ for him so no matter. Graves deserved what was coming to him. George only wished he could do more, but some humiliation to begin with would be nice. He smiled to himself as Ash led the way inside.

The huge space was almost empty except for a couple of chairs and a table in the center. Dim light was not enough to chase off all the shadows, leaving the place looking particularly menacing. George liked the style; it was good in an old-fashioned way. Three figures were in a pool of cold light, two standing at the sides watching George approach and one more, slumped in a chair. A mop of dark hair was unmistakable.

“Everything alright?” George watched the faces of his co-conspirators, his trusty men. It all started there, with the four of them taking down the most influential man in the city. This would be their stepping-stone – they would reach unbelievable heights from here.

Tony averted his eyes and shifted uneasily on his feet.

“What?” George snapped.

Tony shrugged. “This guy,” he nodded his head in the direction of their captive. “Something’s not right with him.”

George looked around Tony at the boy. He sat hunched in a chair, head bowed and tied hands in his lap. His face was hidden behind a curtain of black hair but one did not need to see his expression to know he was not all there. His posture was slack and relaxed.

“Did you drug him?”

Timothy laughed weakly, a nervous edge to his voice. “No.”

“He was pretty tense before,” Tony commented. “When we first grabbed him, but then just…shut off.” He shrugged, unconcerned.

George pushed away a trail of worry at the back of his mind. The guy must be some kind of phsyco anyway – to be hacking up with Graves. Either that or he had no real idea about what was going on around him, which simply made him a fool. With a newfound confidence, George stepped up into the spotlight.

“Hey,” he whispered softly. Crouched before the chair. “Your name is Credence, right?”

No reaction.

“We’ve met before.”

A slight tilt of a head, just enough for Credence to get a glance. When their eyes locked, George had to suppress a shudder; cold shiver ran up his spine.

A weak light cast disproportionate shadows over the man’s sullen features; black on pale skin they turned him into a strange and scary creature. He looked like a ghost, no feelings, no emotions, just cold dispassionate eyes, their color one with the darkness. Unease curled in George’s guts and he had to purposefully remind himself that this, before him, was just a weak creature and they, the four of them were the predators. Draped in another over-sized sweater, this time in a pale color, that barely held up on skinny shoulders he seemed even smaller. There was a bruise blooming on his sharp collarbone and George turned it into a point to stabilize himself. His people gave this guy this bruise. They had the power here.

Although, the more he looked the more he thought another approach might work better.

“We can help you,” he said with sudden fervor.

Credence’s head lifted further, bangs framing his pale face. “Help me?” He mouthed the words but the sound of his voice was so quiet they had to strain to hear. He sounded confused.

“Yes, help you.” George implored. Credence’s expression shifted from neutral to frown.

“Help me?” He repeated, tone just the same.

George leaned closer to the captive, putting his nice face on. “We don’t want to harm you,” he said kindly. “I promise you.”

There was no recognition that the words reached their mark so he gestured to Tony to give him a pocket knife. He opened it with a flourish, hoping for a flinch but got nothing. Dark eyes followed his movement but other than that, there was no emotion. He cut through the wire around the captive’s wrists and made a motion to sooth the abused skin. Credence jerked back.

“Not harming you,” George said with an amused smile.

Credence’s eyes narrowed at him in suspicion. The young man brought up a hand to touch at his left wrist but his fingers dug so hard it must have brought more damage than relief.

“I’ve been thinking,” George moved so he was crouching with one knee on ground. It would be good to look approachable. Friendly. “We can get you away from Graves and you can help us take some territory from him. Easy.” He gave a winning smile. The guys at his back laughed and he shared a glace with Ash briefly. It was a good plan.

“Get me away?” The boy’s voice was weak; it seemed like repeating was the only way of communication he knew. George tried not to let irritation show as he said:

“Yeah. Get you away from that old man. I mean, look at you,” he made an encompassing gesture, taking in Credence’s skinny frame and his haunted eyes. “He has you on a tight leash, doesn’t he? At that tacky mansion of his. And whenever you are allowed to go out he has his men following you. Isn’t that crazy?” George spread his hands wide and was pleased to hear a murmur of agreement from behind. Up front, Credence craned his neck to the side, still uncomprehending.

“He obviously cares about you.” At that something flashed in the young man’s eyes but George was too busy with the speech. He was on a roll. “Since he keeps you caged like that. But a guy needs his freedom, doesn’t he?” George grinned at the lovely generalization he managed to tuck in there. Show the poor kid they had something in common, prove they could be friends. This whole thing would go easier with his cooperation, after all.

Credence’s lips moved around the world ‘freedom’ soundlessly; as if he was tasting the word and wasn’t finding it to his liking.

“Freedom.” George repeated forcefully. “Away from Graves.” He added. “Just hear me out, alright?...”

His speech was interrupted by the warehouse doors opening loudly. They dragged on the concrete floor with a terrible screech and at first he could not see who stepped through. After a moment the silhouette lighted up by lampposts outside resolved into a figure of his uncle.

“Are you out of your mind?” Uncle Frederic shouted even as he crossed the long distance. He was furious.

“Hey, uncle,” Gorge greeted cordially and got to his feet. The guys all jerked away and fell in line at his back. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Uncle Fred spit out; with eyes wide with anger, he stared at George. “This,” he pointed away, indicating the chair. “This is madness!”

George smiled, slow and relaxed, radiating confidence. The old man was apprehensive, but he was always week-willed and cautious. If anything, it only proved George was on the right path.

“This is genius, uncle.” He reassured. “This,”’ he indicated at Credence still slumped in a chair. “Will help us take down Graves.”

“You don’t understand,” Uncle Fred shook his head, still looking at George as if his nephew was mad. “Graves will tear you apart for this. All of you.” He turned his pleading gaze to the other men in the room. George couldn’t see them but he heard Timothy shuffling his feet. He did not need any signs of weakness this close to victory.

“No,” he said sharply. Then with more calm. “No. This is going to work.”

He turned on his heels, eyed his men first to make sure no one was backing out and then leaned to speak to Credence. “Here how this will go.” He spoke urgently. The roughness in his voice brought all the attention to him. Credence sat up straighter and stared back, unblinking. Waiting. “You help us take down Graves. You must know a lot about his operation. You will give us all the information. Later. But right now you play a willing victim,” George smirked over a secret they were supposed to share. “We threaten Graves, he gives up the club and then,” it was hard to keep from laughing. “Then we’ll just get away from here. And take you with us. Free from Graves.”

Credence’s face was blank, impossible to read, but George knew, he just knew, this would work. It was perfect. A win-win for everyone. Well, except Graves, of course.

“Georgy,” Uncle Fred called out weakly. “This isn’t-”

“Sorry, uncle,” George rose a hand to silence the old man. He addressed only Credence when he said. “How does that sound?” He reached out for a friendly pat on the shoulder but got rejected once again when the young man jerked away. “Sorry,” George said and stepped back, spreading his hands. “Do we have a deal?”

Credence’s head lifted slowly and his mouth parted but no words came out, like he could not decide on what to say. At last he settled on an expression George could not decipher. They waited as he slowly rose to his feet, a little unsteady.

“Why would I help you?” He frowned.

A sharp intake of breath behind told him that Uncle Fred was about to go on another roll. George spoke over him. “You don’t want to be Graves’s pet forever, do you?” He snapped. “I can get you away from him.”

“Oh,” Credence breathed out; an epiphany finally hitting home. “You think,” he was speaking slowly, enunciating his words at George. “That I want to get away from Mr. Graves.”

A pause. Silence long enough to make everyone in the room feel awkward. Everyone except for the crazy one, apparently.

“Sorry, what?”

“Georgy,” Uncle Fred interrupted. “It took me less than an hour to find you. It means Graves too will be here soon. We need to get out.”

George whirled around so fast his head span. “Don’t!”

“You think,” the crazy was still talking and George looked at him and, shit, why didn’t he see it before? The kid was totally out of his mind. Those eyes, those dark bottomless eyes, impossible to read, now were directed right at him. And still only the incredulous tilt to his mouth showed any emotion. “That I do not,” he pushed the ‘not’ so hard through his lips it sounded like an offence. “Want to be with Mr. Graves?”

In an instant George knew he had miscalculated; he didn’t need Uncle’s muttering to see that. The old man was shouting viciously in his ear but all of George’s attention was on the young man before him. Credence frowned, a first expression that fully took over his features, “I don’t see why you’d say that.”

George tried to come up with an answer, but his mind was blank. Only one thought flashed like a cheap motel sign: the kid was loyal to Graves. He felt the stress of it run through his veins but trampled down on it – it didn’t matter. They would still win. Back to the original plan then. Nothing to worry about.

Except Credence stood before them, not tied anymore.

And Uncle kept talking his ear off. About how Graves would be here soon. About how ‘Georgy’ never listens and so doesn’t remember the stories of what Graves does to his enemies. About how they would all be mercilessly slaughtered.

“This is just not worth it.” Uncle Fred announced, still hoping to drag George out of this mess.

George whirled around on him. “But it is!”

“Georgy…”

“We go with the plan!” His cry was so loud at first he thought it was deafening. It rang through the warehouse, resonating from thin metal walls and filling the empty space. Only when a dull thud followed it, a body hitting the floor, did George realize what had actually happened.

The kid was standing, arm extended and a gun pointing at George. His eyes were wide but the hand completely steady. A body was at his feet. Poor Ash was closest to him and probably the first to notice the gun. Didn’t do him any good, that. Blood splattered the cold stone. George shivered despite himself.

His own gun was in a holster at his side but he wouldn’t be able to pull it out. The barrel of Credence’s weapon stared him right in the face, cold and unforgiving just as the man wielding it. Tony and Timothy had him at gunpoint but then again, George would be dead when they shoot him. That wasn’t going to work for him. Where did he even get that thing?...

“Now, let’s be reasonable.” He said placating. A hush fell over them as he spoke. “This will not lead to anything. You kill me, they kill you and that’s not a good outcome for either of us.”

Credence shrugged one shoulder apathetically. He said nothing.

“And don’t tell me you don’t care.” George laughed, on a verge of hysterical. It felt like he was close to losing it; the plan had been blown to shit by that point but he kept gripping at scraps and trying to right himself when the ground shook under his feet.

Credence just shrugged, again. Such a careless gesture that pulled at his too big sweater and made the heavy fabric fall awkwardly around his wrists; the hand holding the gun kept steady all the time. Despite the uncaring demeanor, he was concentrated on the task. It seemed, they were opposites, him and George; like they swapped places somewhere along the way and George had not even noticed. He did not expect such strength from an anxious kid he saw in Graves’s library.

He was just counting his chances of getting to the gun and shooting Credence when the doors were forcefully thrown open for the second time that evening. More bodies dropped, his only backup disappearing. Tony and then Timothy were on either side of him, their blood straining the floor rapidly, two rivulets running desperately and connecting at his feet. In the doorway Graves stood, his guards just a step behind with their guns still smoking.

“Mr. Graves,” Uncle Fred greeted gravely. He was standing between George and the door but it was only a matter of time when he too would drop dead. And George after him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. Please forgive him. He is just a stupid boy.” Uncle pleaded; George had never heard him speak this way, so desperate and resigned at the same time.

Graves stalked across the floor, listening but not replying.

“I tried to warn him,” Uncle Fred explained. “But he just won’t listen.”

“You told him and he ignored you?” Graves asked with a note of disgust. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Frederic, I don’t think he’d last in this business anyway.”

“I’ll teach him. Properly.”

George bristled at the insinuation but didn’t get a chance to voice it.

Graves stepped up to Uncle Fred and spoke urgently. “You know what I do to people who steal what’s mine. You know what happens to those who…” He glanced briefly at his pet. His voice had dropped low and menacing. “Hurt him.”

Uncle Fred let out a loud breath and nodded. “I know. I’ve heard. I’ve seen. But please, let him live. I’ll take care of this.”

Graves regarded him silently. George balled his hands into fists, waiting for a verdict. He was done. Totally and completely. How could everything had gone so ridiculously wrong? He had miscalculated with the kid. He had miscalculated with the place; Tony had sworn it was safe. Tony was dead. Timothy was dead. Ash was dead. And soon George would join them.

“As a personal favor to me.” Uncle Fred said at last. He stared Graves down with determination. The words hang heavy in the silence that followed. George could barely breathe.

Graves turned away and stepped around George to meet up with his pet. George’s eyes followed his movements: as he stood before the loaded gun that now hung limply in Credence’s hand, as he slowly put his hand around it, the angle uncomfortable to put the safety on, but he managed, and pulled it away.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly; voice miles away from the way it was just a moment before when he was making threats. His other hand cradled his lover’s cheek; the young man gave a sight nod, moving into the touch.

Graves said, just as softly. “Good.”

George saw him smile, gently, almost sweetly, and it gave him a glimmer of hope. A man capable of such emotion surely could show mercy, right? Right?

Meanwhile Graves slid his hands around the pet’s waist, dragging the bulky sweater and…oh, yes, that’s where the gun was, George realized suddenly. The uncovered mystery gave him no pleasure. After Graves shoved the gun back at the waistband of Credence’s jeans and covered it back with the fabric of his sweater he turned his attention to George.

“This is unacceptable.” He proclaimed.

George swallowed and nodded in repentance.

Graves’s gaze skipped to Uncle Fred and back to George. “This _is_ unforgivable.” He explained. “But…as a personal favor,” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the exit. “You can go.”

With that he was obviously finished with George.

“We should leave.” He addressed Credence who nodded quickly and shifted closer to Graves’s side.

They moved, as one, passed George and Uncle Fred and hesitated by the door where Graves instead of a goodbye delivered a parting threat. “If anything like this happens once again, I will tear you apart.”

George’s knees gave out.

 

* * *

 

 

Frederic only spared a glance to his foolish nephew. He would leave the clean up to the boy; it would be a lesson to him. A harsh one, like the whole ordeal, but actually a lesser punishment than he deserved.

He watched Mr. Graves lead his lover out of the warehouse, careful and gentle. He saw the guards fall into place behind the pair.

He did not understand their relationship, strange as it was. It went beyond what his old-fashioned mind could process, but what he knew, with deep certainty, that it was something special. Love, maybe. Devotion, probably. It was beautiful in its own twisted way.

 

* * *

 

 

Jimmy started up the car as soon as all the doors were closed and sped away from the docks. This place always gave him the creeps and whatever had transpired in that warehouse would not endear them to him either. Bad things went down here.

Jimmy was also acutely aware of what happened to people who angered Mr. Graves.

He glanced through the rear view mirror to his boss, finally calm after the crazy hours of search. Credence, in his place by his side, head leaning on Mr. Graves’s shoulder. He was watching the lights flash by behind the window.

Their hands, on the seat in-between, were intertwined.

 

* * *

 

 

Stradford met them at the porch. He watched the car from the distance and stepped down the steps when it got to the house. Relief was making him generous and he offered the men some drink and rest before they would have to depart. They agreed gladly.

The second car parked right at front and he greeted Mr. Graves and Mr. Credence home. They looked worn and tired and Mr. Graves had his arm thrown around his lover’s shoulders protectively. Stradford knew he would be extra careful with him during the next couple of days. He always was. Any new kidnapping attempt, and there were many of those even though less than a half were successful, riled him up and made him extra cautious.

“I have some tea ready at your rooms, Sir.” Stradford informed him as he opened the door. He let the pair through first and then motioned for the driver to go through to the small parlor where the other men were. James nodded jerkily and disappeared behind the right door. He was jumpy, that one, but Stradford hoped he would grow out of it eventually.

“Thank you, Stradford.” Mr. Graves replied. They were half way up the stairs already. “We won’t need anything else tonight.”

“Alright, Sir. Have a good night.”

He stood at the bottom of the steps for a while, following them with his gaze. It was all good now. The both of them in the safety of this house. A home to them. One that Stradford kept with special care.

He watched them disappear to the corridor on the left and breathed out slowly.

All was well again. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you did get to the end of this fic maybe consider leaving me a review to know what you think?;)
> 
> (Also I do want to make a more 'regular' sidestory with Credence's POV)


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